


Man of The House

by FadedSepia



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, M/M, Not really AU - But assuming supernatural things are canon, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-01-28 18:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Zechs Merquise takes on guardianship of his former lover's estate, seeking a place of refuge.





	1. Prologue - Guardian of the Estate

ATTN: Georg I. Pietronne  
REG: Transfer of Writ of Gaurdianship of Raduzhny Property

As the Executor of the Estate of Treize Kushrenada, and as the Guardian of the Estate of his recognized daughter and Inheritor of his Estate, Mariemaia L. Kushrenada1, until the age of her majority, and with approval of her Adoptive Guardian, M. Redii2 Une, I, Dorothy Catalonia, enclose a certificate evidencing the Temporary Transfer of Guardianship of the Summer Manor at Raduzhny to Milliardo M. R. Z. M. Peacecraft3 on this Tuesday, the 28th Day of October in the Two-Hundred Third Year After Colony.

Accordingly, I hereby instruct and direct you to change the titling of the Writ of Guardianship of the Summer Manor at Raduzhy to denote the Guardian as Milliardo M. R. Z. M. Peacecraft for the duration of years until the legal inheritor of the Estate, Mariemaia L. Kushrenada, reaches the year of her majority, or until such time as Milliardo M. R. Z. M. Peacecraft provides written correspondence of his relinquishment of Guardianship of the Manor. As required by statute 32333-737-424, the Temporary Guardian’s address and World Nation Identification Number are included on the enclosed Certificate of Temporary Transfer of Guardianship form.

In accordance with the instructions in form 1957-19-SJ46-TL5 , this transfer is to be treated as a person-to-person transfer of Estate Guardianship and is not to be treated or reported as a disbursement of all or a portion of the Estate, or as a transfer of the powers of the Executor, or of ownership of the Estate.

Please advise what, if any, further information or documentation is required for the completion of this transfer.

Very truly yours,

_Dorothy T. Catalonia_

|~|~|

“And a last one right… there!”

Zechs’ hand dragged over the paper as, for what felt like the thousandth time, he scrawled his signature across the indicated line, glad to be finished with the entire process. He hadn’t even been worth having a real solicitor handling the process, and the overly excitable intern had made the last two hours all but interminable. Of course, as a disgraced minor count – Relena had deigned to let him keep _that_ title – taking charge of the home of a former dictator, he could probably count himself lucky that he even got a _human_ to handle this. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, sir! We’re all done here, so long as the Duch-6 I mean Miss Catalonia has already given you the key?”

He nodded, lifting a hand to rub his temples, and almost wishing he’d left his hair down so that he could hide his exasperation behind it. This was what he wanted, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 – I know her middle name isn’t canon, but I think it should be Leia. That’s all.  
> 2 – Another name note: I just used one of the ways I’ve seen her Japanese name written out in English for her middle name.  
> 3 – One, many royal families make a habit of giving kids ridicu-long names, or multiple middle names, so I decided his middle names were Marticus Rex Zechs Merquise. I’m assuming that he was lazy and picked his two last middle names as his secret identity because, let’s be honest, who would actually remember them - nobody calls him “William Arthur Philip Louis” after all - and that his first two are after his father.  
> 4 - Secret code time... actually, I'm just lazy.  
> 5 - Not a code...  
> 6 - With her parents dead and her grandfather a disgrace, looks like the Duchy of Wherever-the-Flip is Dorothy’s, now.


	2. Housekeeper - Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zechs arrives at the Raduzhny Manor and begins settling in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to Talliya for beta-reading. I don't think this will be finished by the end of Unnatural November 2017, but I will try to get it completed during this winter.

|~|~|~|

AC203 – October 30

Sister:

I pray the chill in the air has not dampened your spirits, and that you and Heero are well. I realize you had hoped to see me after my return but, as current circumstances provide me with only limited time to myself, I’m certain you will forgive me for not stopping by. I can assure you that I did try to reach you through your office. I am left only to assume that your duties continue to keep you busy. However, this affords me the opportunity to acquaint you with the best mode of reaching me for the next few months. (I trust you have at least some experience with letter-writing, given your chosen occupation.) This post office box will be my most reliable communication, though I shall only be able to check it once or twice every few weeks. I can only hope that my presence will be as unnecessary until February as it has been until now.

Do not worry. I have a radio should something unforeseen happen, though I don’t expect to need it.

It is my plan that I shall return in late January or early February, though any travel will, as always, be heavily dependent upon the weather. While I’m sure you have already begun the preparations, I must tell you now that I will not be home for my birthday. 1 I will, however, have returned by the time of the tasteful fete that I’m sure you’ve already begun planning for April. (In fact, regardless of the weather, you shall have no less than an entire month to once again grow sick of me before your birthday comes next year!) Provided I am not killed by exposure, a tree, or poorly tinned fish – I’m sure no God would show such mercy for me – I expect to be home no later than the 15th of February.

As ever,

Z.M.

|~|~|

When he’d finally returned from Mars for the last time, the Kushrenda summer home had been Zechs Merquise’s chosen hermitage. Like the rest of Treize’s estate – the portion still remaining after the war reparations and civilian destruction – the manor had been placed under the guardianship of Dorothy Catalonia, at least until Mariemaia was old enough to decide how to dispose of it. Although he’d been reticent to ask, the younger woman had been only too happy to hand the management of the property over to him. She certainly had little interest in trekking out into the mountains north of Raduzhny to check on it at all, most especially during the winter.

It was a massive structure, built nearly two centuries before the construction of the colonies had even begun, when the founding head of the family had made his fortune in that century’s petroleum boom. The surrounding towns, even the city by the river, had been abandoned not long after said construction began, but the manse remained, a single outpost in a nearly forgotten wilderness.

Memories of summer leave – days spent in the nearby lakes, nights spent first in a well-appointed guestroom, and, later, in Treize’s arms – were what had drawn him back. It was the perfect place to, if only for the few months he had to himself in the winter, escape from Noin’s well-meaning smile, his sister’s machinations, and his own guilt.

Staying miles from habitation, he would be on his own for supplies. Of course, the planning hadn’t been any more involved than his long-remembered missions. The boxes of supplies, along with a single-man towing sledge hitched to the back of his snowcat, were the answer to the problems of food and water, with more than enough room for staples to leave over when he left. Wood for the fireplaces in the main rooms he could chop easily himself, and there was fuel enough to keep the boiler going so that the limited plumbing to the upstairs wouldn’t freeze. An emergency radio, and a sat-phone – though he hadn’t, and wouldn’t, share the number – he’d brought along only at Dorothy’s urging that he not cut himself off entirely. And, unless the mice had gotten at them too badly over the last decade, the house’s library would be sufficient to keep him entertained.

|~|~|

Zechs parked his snowcat by the back of the house, unhitching the sledge and dragging it around to the side entrance of the kitchen. He pulled out the key, a relic from a bygone past, and turned the heavy brass over once in his fingers before sliding it home in the lock. The former prince counted himself fortunate; it had been a warm day, a warm autumn despite the snow, and the lock wasn’t frozen. It was slow in turning though, and he’d needed to throw most of his weight to get the door to the kitchen basement open.

The interior was no warmer than it had been outside, but it got him out of the wind so that he could at least peel off his snow goggles. Zechs locked the door behind him – the rest of his supplies could be unloaded in the daylight – and settled the sledge near the steps leading up into the main hall and kitchen. Daylight was fading quickly, and it would be best to get at least some of his supplies upstairs, even if he probably would be sleeping in the basement tonight.

It should have surprised him, if he’d thought on it, how clean and well-kept the place was. After ten years without habitation, it was, aside from a few motes of dust kicked up by his boots, immaculate. Everything seemed just as it had been when the house had been locked up after he and Treize had summered there in 194. The fine coating of dust and occasional cobweb did little to obscure either the intricate inlaid floor below his boots or the silver-leafed sconces overhead.

Perhaps because it seemed as luxuriant as the palace of his earliest childhood, he often found it hard to understand why Treize had referred to it as the summer _cottage_ , more difficult still to realize that most of the furnishings consisted of well-made reproduction pieces. The manse had been expanded over the first three or four generations of the family, it’s architecture showcasing a style of luxury that – even when it was built – had been anachronistic. Still, thought Zechs as he descended again, even that opulence gave way to practicality in the home’s oldest intact room.

Despite its high ceiling, the basement was little more than a large brick box, dominated at one end by the huge gas boiler and an ancient brick stove, the latter of which served as a back-up heat source for the radiator system. Floor to ceiling shelves, meant to serve as larder space for the household, lined the walls, now all but empty. The brick floor was uneven, settled lower in the centre, having sagged over centuries, leaving the stool left near its centre listing precariously close to falling over.

At one time, according to what Treize had told him, this room had been the main kitchen of the house. The great painted brick oven that squatted beside the boiler used for everything from cooking food to heating bath-water; even now, there were still a few ancient copper basins hanging from it. The stove reached almost to the ceiling, the upper cooking and heating space so high that it could only be reached by the steps set into its side. The lowest opening was set aside for wood storage, while the opening for the oven itself was just above knee height. A large expanse of brick, heated by the fire below, could serve as space for pots or basins, or even proofing bread at the far end.

Zechs had always thought it looked more like an oven for shoving children into than for cooking food. In the early years of their friendship, he’d shuddered any time Treize said it was his turn to tend to the old thing.

The stove, however, seemed a small thing indeed beside the great bulk of the furnace beside it. Wrapped in a tangle of brass and copper piping, the house’s heating system always brought to mind an old prototype he’d once seen for a mobile armour.2 A bevvy of valves and spigots protruded from the main body of the water tank itself, with the tank abutting multiple engines and heating units, not all of which were actually functional. In keeping with other anachronisms of the home, the original builder, and subsequent family members, had maintained the radiators and steam pipes, but never bothered to install any other heating system aside from the fireplaces. To add further confusion, no one had seen fit to do any more updating than to layer on subsequent additional power sources – including everything from furnaces for coal and wood to an attempt at solar integration – for the furnace itself.

Despite the pipes snaking through the walls and floor, Zech had a suspiscion that – above the basement and first floor –  the home would likely still say chilly. Still, it would have to be more tolerable than the outside, if only because it blocked the drafts. He would have to start chopping wood tomorrow unless he planned to spend the next three months down in the cellar like a turnip.

With a sigh, he un-lashed one of the fuel cans and dragged it over to the boiler. The water tank was still full – Dorothy had mentioned that regular maintenance checks had at least been done – and the anti-freezing agent appeared to have done its job. The main tank was almost as large as the oven itself, straddling the heater for which he’d been forced to bring so much fuel. It would take hours to heat so many gallons, and he still wouldn’t be able to start heating the rest of the house until the morning.

|~|~|

Starting up the boiler had been a simple task. Unloading the rest of his supplies, however, had sapped what little daylight had remained, and had forced him to spend over an hour groping around with only a clip-on lamp to stock the shelves. Supper had been a camp ration that he’d been too tired to fully rehydrate, along with a cup of water. Now he had only to settle in for the night and hope that none of the pipes in the radiators above him sprung leaks before morning. Still, it would be nice to sleep without _needing_ to keep on his full snowsuit…

Zechs glanced over at the stove, noting that there were still a few logs that hadn’t rotted out in the alcove for wood storage at its side. He had fuel, and a lighter; a fire would certainly make the evening more pleasant. Plus, he could heat some of the water and food he’d brought, meaning he’d have a hot meal and enough water to wash up with come morning. Decision made, Zechs set to placing the logs into the back of the open fireplace at the base of the oven. Presently, the fire came alive in the back of the hearth, suffusing the room with a ruddy glow, and allowing him to turn off his lamp.

He unscrewed the cap on one of the still frozen jugs of water, placing it on the wide expanse of brick to the side of the stove. At the far end of the long brick hearth, which should just be warm by morning, Zechs placed a tin of half a dozen biscuits, a gift from Mariemaia for his trip. With his sleeping bag and bedroll spread out before the hearth, all that was left was wait for the room to heat up a bit.

He dragged the stool over next to the oven, settling down before the fire. Zechs pushed the water jug to the side so that he could lean onto the slowly warming bricks. If only the rest of the room would heat up this quickly…

|~|~|

Morning, or at least the hour his body insisted was morning in the dim light of the basement, came abruptly. As he struggled into consciousness, Zechs flailed in an attempt to fling off an attacker in the throes of a dream, taking a long moment to realize that his arms were only trapped his sleeping bag. He was certain he hadn’t gotten off the stool, and had expected to wake up slumped over warm bricks, not tucked pleasantly in on the floor. But he instead found himself swathed in his bag, clothed in the old denims and sweatshirt, tangled in his hair, blearily trying to remember when he’d folded the rest of his clothes and put them up on the stool.

Though he hated to leave the pleasant cocoon of his bedroll and bag, and wasn’t really on any sort of schedule, Zechs found he was too hungry to go back to sleep. He snatched his hair back into a messy tail and slid back into his boots. At least the stove had done its job and gotten the room up to a liveable temperature.

“Oh, shit…” Perhaps the stove had done its job too well. The water container was already a quarter empty, and there didn't appear to be a leak underneath it. While he didn't need to ration it, he hadn't planned on washing in boiling water, either.

Yet, when he lifted the container, he found it barely warmed, and with the cap replaced. The tin of biscuits beside it was still open, four of them nestled in individual layers of wax paper. Two slips of wax paper, neatly folded, were tucked beneath the tin.

Zechs couldn’t remember waking up to eat anything; he didn’t have any history with sleep eating. Of course, he didn’t really remember sleepwalking either, and there certainly wasn’t any other way he could have gotten into bed. But, again, he was certain that he'd flown and fought while only half conscious; who was he to say he hadn't snuck some sweets before bed?

Regardless, his stomach insisted that the late-night snack had been insufficient; he was still hungry. Sleepwalking or not, he didn't have time to waste on thinking about what else he might do when half-conscious. He would run out of lumber in a few hours, and the house would take all day to heat once he opened the radiators. Zechs resettled himself onto the stool before the dying fire and reached for another biscuit.

|~|~|~|

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 – If Zechs’ official birthday is listed somewhere, I couldn’t find it, and have decided it’s probably at some point in January. Relena’s official birthday is in April, though.  
> 2 – I realize mobile armours/mobile workers are not canon in the GW timeline, but maybe there was an old prototype that Zechs found at some point when he was getting the plans to restore Tallgeese.


	3. Housekeeper - Stocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zechs grows more accustomed to his temporary home.

|~|~|~|

Outgoing Transmission Start: [203-11-15::UT:10:37:25]  
Message Sequence: [Loop Transmission]  
[Start]  
0101101001100101011001000010111001000001011011000110110001110111011001010110110001101100001111110100000101101100011011000111011101100101011011000110110001101000011001010111001001100101001011100100111001101111011101010111000001100100011000010111010001100101011100110101010100101110010100110101001101000100010001000110011001101111011100100101001000101110010011100111001101100101011001010110101101110011011000110110111101101110011101000110000101100011011101000010111001000011011010000110000101101110011011100110010101101100011100110111010001101001011011000110110001110011011001010110001101110101011100100110010100101110010011010111001101100001011110010111001101001000011001010110110001101100011011110101010101101110011000110110110001100101010110100010111000100001010100100110010101110011011100000110111101101110011001000111001101110100011000010111010001110101011100110011000100110001001011010011000100110110001110100011101001010101010101000011001000110010001110100011010000110000001000010100010001101111011101010111010000101110  
[End]  
Message Sequence: [Loop Transmission]

Incoming Transmission Start: [203-11-15::UT:15:14:25]  
PackageReceipt=True: [203-11-15::UT:15:26:19]

[Run]  
BinSimp128

[Return]

Zed.Allwell?Allwellhere.NoupdatesU.SSDDforR.Nseekscontact.Channelstillsecure.MsaysHelloUncleZ.!Respondstatus11-16::UT22:40!Dout.

[Run]  
CleanGrammar  
AlgorithmPredictDot

[Return]

Zed4. Hope all is well. No updates from Une. SSDD for Relena. Noin continuing to ask for communication. This channel remains secure. Mariemaia says Hello Uncle Z. URGENT! Respond with status by 11-16::UT 22:40. Dot out.

<|-:-|>

Outgoing Transmission Start: [203-11-16::UT:19:56:18]  
Message Sequence: [Send Transmission]  
[Start]  
0100010000101110010000100110111101101001011011000110010101110010011001100111010101101110011000110111010001101001011011110110111001100001011011000010111001001110011011110110010001110010011000010110011001110100001011110110110001100101011000010110101100101110010000110110100001101111011100000111000001101001011011100110011101110111011011110110111101100100001011100101001101110100011011110111001001101101011100110110010101111000011100000110010101100011011101000110010101100100001011100101001101101110011011110111011101100010011011000110100101101110011001000100011001110010010100110110000100101110010100110111010101110000011100000110110001101001011001010111001101101000011011110110110001100100011010010110111001100111001011100101001101101111011100100111001001111001010100110100111001000001010001100101010101010010001001100100111000101110010100100110010101100111011000010111001001100100011100110100110100100110010101010010111001000001011011000110110001110111011001010110110001101100001011100101101001101111011101010111010000101110  
[End]  
Message Sequence: [Terminate Transmission]

Incoming Transmission Start: [203-11-16::UT:20:14:25]  
PackageReceipt=True: [203-11-16::UT:20:18:34]

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D.Boilerfunctional.Nodraft/leak.Choppingwood.Stormsexpected.SnowblindFrSa.Suppliesholding.SorrySNAFUR&N.RegardsM&U.Allwell.Zout.

[Run]  
CleanGrammar  
AlgorithmPredictZed

[Return]

Dot. The boiler is functional. No drafts no leaks. Chopping wood. Storms expected. Snow blind Friday and Saturday. Supplies are holding well. My apologies for the SNAFU with Relena and Noin. Give my regards to Marie and Une. All well. Zed out.

|~|~|

For what seemed like the thousandth time that day, Zechs pulled the goggles away from his face, swiping his hand over the inside to clear away the condensation. It wasn’t terribly windy and, at least for where he was, not as cold as it could be. As sweaty as he was getting beneath all of his layers, though, he couldn’t stop the polarized goggles from fogging over. Still, he wouldn’t have wanted to set about cutting this much lumber without them. With a huff, he threw his weight back into the harness, fighting to keep the small, overloaded sledge in motion back towards the manor. He’d already used most of the daylight, grateful for once of the frigid temperature; it was a blessing that meant it was too cold to smell how rank he must be.

Not, of course, that he enjoyed spending hours in the frozen copse around the house, only that the cold, at least, was easy to plan for. After two weeks, Zechs had learned not to conflate danger with just the cold. Some days prior, when he was sure the last of the snowfall had passed, he'd made the mistake of not wearing anything to shield him from the glare off of the snow. When the wind had picked up on his return, he'd found himself trapped in a cloud of glowing white, barely able to see the trees around him in the brightness. The spots had still been dancing before his eyes when he'd collapsed into the guestroom bed.

He certainly could understand why Treize had always insisted this was a summer home, given the way many of the rooms leeched heat. Even with the boiler running properly, keeping at least a banked fire in most of the hearths was a necessity. Which, of course, meant he’d spent the first two weeks of his sabbatical felling and spitting lumber to fill the empty basement shelves, his bedroll laid out before the basement oven. Not the most luxurious of accommodations, by any means, but certainly more comfortable than the upper rooms.

A dribble of snow slid down onto the trail he’d been backtracking, and, off in the distance, a dog barked, jarring him out of his introspections. The sun was already brushing the top edge of the trees, and he could only just see the peaks of the manor roof-line through the branches. Zechs dug his heels in and pulled.

|~|~|

Initially, Zechs had thought to move up to his old guest room after the radiators were on, and he yet might, but laying in a supply of wood had been his highest priority. While he’d unpacked his clothes into the familiar guestroom highboy, he still wasn’t certain about sleeping in the upper room. That it was nearest to the bathroom was, at best, only a meagre incentive.

The bathroom was also on the second floor, in the northeast corner of the house, and he had soon found it was perfectly useless in the winter. Though the main boiler heated the water and ran the pumps, all of the water for the house travelled in its own piping. By the time it reached the tub spigot, it was cool at best, near freezing at worst. The former soldier had seriously wondered whether he would have to resort to field showers for the duration.

Thankfully, the largest of the copper basins had been sizeable enough for him to use as a wash tub. Certainly, he had to bail water over from the wall spigot, but, though it still stung to think about him, his former lover had been correct. One could use the span of the brick stove to heat water, or keep a bath warm. The steps inset along the side of the stove made getting to and from the tub a simple manoeuvre. And, Zechs had to admit, being able to warm his towels on the bricks was a distinct advantage.

Stripping himself of all but his underclothes, and tugging an ancient brocade housecoat over those, he grabbed a few towels from the linen closet and made his way toward the basement. Making a quick bypass through the kitchen to get a pail of cold water, he stepped carefully down the narrow basement steps.

He peeled off his undershirt and thermals, folding them to set aside on what he'd come to think of as _his_ stool. The towels he put beside the tub, spreading them out long over the brick to warm, while the pail he emptied into the basin of heated water stretched over the stovetop. The steam still coming off of the copper tub was all the invitation he needed.

|~|~|

Scratching from off to his left sent him reaching for the pistol he no longer carried, hand plunging into the warm water near his hip. It was that realization – that he was naked and unarmed – that brought him to full wakefulness, peering into the darkness on the far end of the basement. The scuttling had stopped, whatever creature making it was likely frozen, just as Zechs was, and staring back at him from behind the stacked wood. There was a gap in the split logs, and something may have wriggled in between them.

If, of course, there was anything at all. The house might only have been creaking as it settled. Not to mention that he _had_ fallen asleep in the bath. The long soak in hot water might not have been the best choice, especially on an empty stomach which, rather loudly, was making itself known. He reached out for the towel folded beside him, just as the noise started up, again.

Those little noises were not unlike footsteps, as if something was creeping near the stacked wood on the far wall. There was no dragging to the sound, only the slow, slight steps. It probably wasn’t a rat, but perhaps it was a fox, or maybe a bird. The manse was old enough that there were surely ways for all manner of creature to come in from the cold, and he certainly couldn’t blame anything that wanted in out of that icy waste. Whatever it was, though, Zechs wasn’t just going to let it have run of the house; he hadn’t spent weeks readying this frozen sanctuary to share it with vermin.

The fire in the stove had died down considerably; there was a loud crack as the burning wood settled. Zechs held his breath, watching for movement. The dim light of the basement, combined with the shifting light of the fire, did not make that easy. When, after a few moments, nothing happened, he was left only to assume that whatever it was had run off into the walls.

Water sluicing from his body, Zechs stood in the basin, glad that the pervasive chill of the house didn’t ever seem to reach this far. One towel around his waist, the other over his shoulders, he carefully stepped back down from the stove. The bathwater could stay; he would use it for washing up the clothes tomorrow. He fed another piece of split wood into the fire, stirring it a moment before heading up to another supper of tinned beans.

|~|~|~|

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 – These two seemed friendly enough to have nicknames for each other, and I like to think they bonded slightly over Treize’s loss. Zed I took from the first letter of Zechs’ name. Dot is just a nickname for Dorothy, who seems more in a friendly mood than Zechs.


	4. Housekeeper - Bedding Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zechs makes his bed and must sleep in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to lbro009 and Talliya for your support and encouragement, and Bryony for comments that kept me going.

AC203 – December 01

Brother:

I should like to say that I am rather adept at writing, but know that it would be unseemly to brag. While I understand your desire to have time to yourself, I am disappointed that you will not be home for winter and the New Year. We’ve not had a family holiday _~~since you stopped seeing Lucrezia~~_ in so long! You really oughtn’t tease me about my birthday, either. As you’re missing the rest of the celebrations this year, I’m of a mind to make it as gaudy and overblown as possible, just to spite you.

I wish that you didn’t feel the need to subject yourself to this self-imposed exile. If you must insist on some type of penance, even now, there certainly are better ways to go about it than shipping yourself off to Mars or the middle of the wilderness. Certainly, you needn’t be in any type of global spotlight, but you could at least be of assistance here. Miraculously, despite the fact that you seem determined to be absolutely morbid at all times, there are quite a few individuals that yet seem fond of you. I’m certain you could put your skills to better use than keeping house, at least.

Radio or not, do be careful when you’re out. Much as it may pain you to hear it, I, too, am rather fond of you, and would be quite upset if you were killed by poorly tinned fish. Before you start in on another round of self-deprecation, don’t presume that it’s because you are my only family: my mother is, after all, still alive. Please don’t take any unnecessary risks while you’re there.

Your sister,

Relena D. Peacecraft

P.S. – ZM? How long will you insist on calling yourself that? It makes me feel as if you’re ashamed to be my brother.

|~|~|

Zechs forced his weight into the frame a final time, and the four-post canopy finally slid into the space he’d cleared for it. The old wood creaked as he let himself fall back atop the bed, sinking into the pile of pillows and linens. He took only a moment to enjoy the softness, regretting his decision near instantly as he was left almost swimming his way out of the covers. Still, he’d be grateful for all of it tonight.

The cozy mound had been the first half of his best idea to ward off the nightly chill in the upper rooms. The second, repositioning the bed to the inside corner of the guestroom and nearer the fireplace, ought to make sleeping in the room more comfortable as well. Regardless, after so many weeks, he would not be spending another night sleeping on the floor.

Escaping the downy trap and getting to his feet, Zechs reached for a final quilt – the last of the armful he’d raided from the other bedrooms – and draped it over the pile. With one more comforter now layered on the bed, it seemed his unorthodox sleeping nest was finished. "Perfect."

It was startling to hear a voice – even if it was his own – echoing back to him from the high ceiling of the guest room. He'd lost the habit of speaking to himself during the years with Noin on Mars, as the cramped living domes hadn't left for any real alone time. Sanc, despite offering better sleeping accommodations, hadn't been any better as far as privacy; between reporters, attachés, servants, and Relena, the head was the only private time he'd had. And, of course, no talking to himself out in public. What would the press think, after all, other than that the elder Peacecraft was insane. Perhaps they were correct. He wasn’t sure that he had spoken since his sabbatical began. Was it abnormal? _Should_ he be talking to himself, again? Or should his private speech stay within the confines of his head. Was pondering his sanity only a month in a sign that he _was_ going slightly mad? Or might the habit _keep_ him from becoming any more so?

“Oh, well.” He shrugged, flattening a hand over the sheets, eyes already on the door. As long as he was the only one answering, he'd be fine. He didn’t _need_ anyone to hold a decent conversation.

|~|~|

Most mornings, Zechs found the extra set of stairs between his mouth and his coffee was an inconvenience, but a bearable one. The first night in the nest, as he thought of it, had done much, itself, to dampen that pressing pre-dawn need. He had too little dignity left to pretend he hadn’t longed for a real bed, even if only a barracks’ bunk. At eighteen, a decent mattress was an unnecessary but appreciated luxury. At twenty-eight – with years of pre- and post-war injuries just beginning to make their full damage known – it was essential.

This morning had begun in the manner that had become his routine. He woke just before five – 04:57 by the faint display of his watch – pressed up from his stomach onto his knees to stretch out his back, and braced himself for the bite of cold air when he left the bed. But with the weight of the quilts atop him, and the barest glow of embers visible through a chink in the bed curtains, he decided that, perhaps just once, he’d indulge in a bit of hedonism. Zechs rolled to readjust himself, tucking a few escaped blond wisps back behind his ear. He laid on his stomach, leaning barely to the left, his arm tucked around his face, head on his own shoulder. Comfortable, warm… “Pillowed in silk and scented down.1”

He loosed a soft chuckle. Appropriate, though he might have proved Relena’s point about morbidity. There had been no need to add any scent to the bedding; most of it had been well kept. A few of the older quilts, taken from bedrooms closed since he had visited as a boy, had been dusty and heavy with the smell of neglect, but that was manageable. A few rounds of vigorous shaking, airing the linens under the sharp glare of the low winter sun, and any lingering mustiness would have cause him no issue. The problem of the newer blankets, however, was beyond him. At first, he’d thought not to use them at all, but the constant threat of drafts had forced his hand.

These were the linens he had used. The red and white quilt, patterned in sunbursts and fancifully embroidered livestock which he’d clutched when visiting as a child. The crocheted lace afghan, wrought by someone clearly possessed of divine patience, that had been tucked around his shoulders when Trieze had once caught him asleep at study. The rose and vine damask spread, its heavy white threads marking the foliage in bold relief, that had been lain across the guestroom bed the first time Treize had laid beneath him, all pink-flushed skin and bright, teasing eyes as he-

Zechs pressed his face into the mattress, growling out a sigh. He tried to ignore the smell of roses and smoked tea that, almost a decade later, still seemed to leach from the bedding to which they clung. It was, he was certain, only the cruelty of his imagination that brought the familiar scents. The house hadn’t been disturbed since his… Since Treize’s death, but it had been eight years ago. Yet, now and again, Zechs still found himself thinking of the other man. Expecting his presence, or, worse, pining for it, aching with an oppressive, visceral need that he knew he should have long since outgrown. His aching back, the slight catch as he drew up his arm to his chest, were constant reminders that he wasn’t a young man anymore, and yet…

He was forced adjust his position on the mattress once more, now fully laid on his side. The relief of pressure from the mattress was soothing only until he realized how little friction his sweatpants offered. Ensconced in the darkness of the mound of bedding, pale blue eyes cast a glare towards his rebelling nethers, but his wayward anatomy refused to comply.

Calloused fingers tapped at his watch face – 05:03 – then removed the timepiece altogether. The basement hearth was at no risk for going cold. His coffee would be waiting at whatever time he pulled himself from the bed. He was alone in an empty house, hours away from the nearest living human soul, so there was no risk of witness to this private shame. Closing his eyes, he let those same fingers start to work his drawstring open, setting to the rarest of his hedonistic indulgences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - Excerpt from Alan Seeger's "Rendezvous with Death," a poem about a pilot preparing to die in war


	5. Housekeeper - Unaccompanied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is only here because of direct encouragement from @Bryony (REBB), who continues to be encouraging and supportive even after months without updates.
> 
> This chapter is completely un-beta'd because I was determined to get it out in time for a This Week in Gundam Wing update. Please excuse the mess, and let me know if/where there are glaring errors.

|~|~|~|

 [StarWire Telegram Services: Service Station RSUK-4-Z0n4-R]

|Received|203|11|19|04|45|

|| Merquise. || This is archaic. You could at least have gone somewhere with a satellite signal. I couldn’t even find a number for you. I had to contact Dorothy regarding your telegram office. || Currently, everything is quiet, but you know how the New Year celebrations always seem to get everyone a little OVERLY EXCITED. || I will remind you that you are still considered an agent, and your skillsets may be needed more than usual this year.|| With only the FIFTH of our overtime workforce available for the holidays, I’m sure you’ll understand. || I don’t understand you taking your vacation in that place. It can’t be comfortable. || Whatever your reasons, I EXPECT that you will be at full mental capacity upon your return.  || We all have to move forward, eventually. || Une. ||

|~|~|

Grumbling only to the emptiness of the room, he tossed the scrap of paper into the hearth. Zechs had already penned her reply. It was clear that the former colonel was wanting for work if she was taking time to check up on him. He had little need for her concern. Ensconced in the few blankets that hadn’t made it onto his bed, Zechs found that even the library – set as it was on the northern side of the first floor – was liveable, if not cosy this close to the fire. He crossed the yarn in his fingers over the waiting strand, picking up his alternate colour.

During the few private moments afforded to him during his period of observation following the war, he’d thrown his energies into re-learning the knitting he’d practiced as a child. On Mars, it had been one of very few creative outlets with which to fill the endless cycles of waiting. So long as it was well spun, the same yarn could be worked and frogged1 out at least a few times, saving on the limited space for personal cargo allotted him. Subsequent re-assignment to the multi-year rotations had left him ample time to hone his skills, but little space in which to work.

Zechs’ current residence at least solved the issues of space. Indeed, it had even offered inspiration for the bulky sweater slowly taking shape on his needles. Someone – perhaps the same well-meaning soul responsible for the afghan across his lap – had stocked a corner shelf with all manner of books on fabric and fibre arts. The collection, which included volumes on both stitches and colour-work pattern,s had been long neglected. As evinced by the many marks of tiny teeth, and the abandoned nest he’d discovered along with them, they had slipped out of mind years ago.

The cache of books had been a godsend after his initial perusal of the library alerted him to a rather unfortunate truth. The bulk of the Khushrenada library consisted of books written in Russian. Even his newly found knitting books were only of use because they included stitch diagrams.

He had known that neither Standard nor Sanquase were Treize’s mother tongue; the other had made no secret of his command of language. It should have occurred to Zechs to check earlier. Indeed, it might have, had he not enjoyed being somewhat spoiled by his former lover. Treize had insisted on reading to him, leaving him without the opportunity to recognize that the general had been translating every word as he did.

Among the contents of the room, only one slim set of shelves were reserved for books whose letters he could recognize. Within that small collection, the number of books he both could and cared to read was paltry. Annals on politics or the economics of war were hardly relevant to a man who’d already lived their lessons. That left a few volumes of poetry, a collection of children’s picture books, and a knee-high pile on horticulture and flower setting. The custom bookplates – stamped with a scrolling ТГК2 – had been unnecessary; the entire collection was very Treize.

 _Very_ Treize…

Zechs’ indignant stomp entirely upended the bowl at his feet, sending two delicate skeins in a skittering tangle across the parquet floor. Perhaps he ought to get some fresh air. Besides which, he had mail in need of sending.

|~|~|

9th December AC 203

Darling Mari:

Happy Christmas! I trust you didn’t try to get at your gifts early, and that you are reading this on time. How is my favourite niece doing this year? I’m terribly sorry I won’t be able to see you over the holiday. I don’t recommend ever becoming [in]famous; it makes vacations terribly difficult. (Hahhah.) Your Aunt Dorothy tells me you’ve grown quite a bit since my time away. Perhaps, after the winter, a shopping trip is in order? I promise to call as soon as I’m back on the ground in Brussels or Sanc.

Are you keeping up with your studies? You’ll be sitting for your exams at the end of next term, if I’m not mistaken? I’m sure that you’ll do wonderfully, if only you put half as much effort into your school work as you do into finding your way into mischief. I  do pray that Dorothy was exaggerating when she mentioned the incident with the starfish.

I hope you enjoy your gift, and that you find it of use.

Happy Christmas!

~ Uncle Z

|~|~|

Despite scraping his shoes as best he could, Zechs still found himself dropping wet daubs of snow as he closed the door behind him. In the chilled entryway, the little white mounds remained mostly intact. He’d be keeping his coat on.

The post-office sat at the far end of the same airstrip onto which he’d been deposited so many weeks earlier. The building itself was a converted field hangar, and – with one wall given over entirely to an old set of bay doors – must have once housed planes. It was one of models that had gone up before the first Federation wars; there was not nearly enough height to fit even a mobile armour inside.

That it was still standing was more a testament to the ingenuity of the subsequent owners than an endorsement of construction that had been barely good enough for government work. It served now not only as post-office, but also air-traffic control center, telegram station, and satellite uplink for those few remaining on the lake and surrounding mountains through the winter.

Zechs had been assured that there were other people in the nearby town, but he had yet to venture further toward civilization than this little outpost. Privacy had led him out here, after all. There was little point in inviting strangers to intrude on his life more than they already did. The only thing that had brought him from his drafty hermitage today had been the need to ship off a few gifts before the New Year and check to see what might have arrived. He’d ventured down to the office only twice since his arrival, always to find the door unlocked, and what letters or parcels that had arrived waiting in neat piles atop the main counter. It made sense that no one should keep full-time hours; what would there be to even do? As such, he was almost startled to see someone in the office at all, let alone behind the counter.

The woman – clearly more used to the cold than he – wore a heavy sweater, but neither hat nor coat, though she had tied a kerchief over the top of her head. Cascading over each shoulder were braids that would have put even Maxwell’s to shame, with plaited hair so perfectly white it made him rather self-conscious that his might be dingey by comparison. As to her age, he could not pin down the decade; she was, he thought, one of those people that seemed middle aged from their twenties up through their sixties. Zechs set the his armload onto the counter, hoping he wasn’t being too aloof in his intrusion.

“Privye- Oh…” Now that she was looking at him, Zechs would have put her age rather higher than he’d first thought. No one’s eyes got that sort of look about them without a good number of years behind. She gave him a quick once over, then clicked her tongue, appearing almost as if he’d disappointed her. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good mor-“ The words caught for a moment and he coughed, shaking his head as he cleared his throat. “My apologies. Good morning, Miss..?”

“Lana.” With that, she took the package and letters from his hands, sorting them into the bins behind  her. “You sound ill.”

“It’s only that I find myself rarely speaking of late.” In a former life, he might have taken offense at her blunt appraisal. Now, after years playing at politics and double entendre, Zechs found in paradoxically refreshing. If anything, this Lana didn’t seem the type to trap him in a forced conversation.

“Too long alone isn’t good for a man.” She had pulled out an envelope from one of the shelves, and slid it across the counter to him. “Still, it’s good that you’re visiting. Gives the young master someone to talk to.”

Zechs fought back a grimace as he picked up the letter. Perhaps he ought to just leave .This woman was, he feared, one of _those_ people.

Even with a public death – witnessed by hundreds and broadcast to thousands – there were still those convinced that the leader of Oz was alive, somewhere out there in the sphere. By what luck and to what end didn’t matter, nor did the years. Or, and perhaps this was worse, she might not have known at all. Though it seemed an eternity ago to him, and though much of the world government had moved on, there were many people still recovering from the decades of war and fractious infighting that the alliance had left behind. This pocket of solitude – a place where even _he_ could go unnoticed – might be among those places left behind by the continual push of information and progress.

“I suppose not.” He slid the letter into one of his pockets, then gave Lana a bare smile, hand extended. “Have a good day.”

“Take care of yourself, Mr. Merquise.” She grasped his gloved hand in hers, and – though the smile she offered was bright and caring, crinkling up the corners of her eyes – Zechs startled, fighting the urge to snatch away from her grip. The cold permeating his hand ached more sharply than anything he’d ever felt, passing through numbness to a burning so deep he worried his forearm would snap like a dead twig. Lana give his fingers another light squeeze before releasing him.

As suddenly as it had come upon him, the chill was gone. Zechs wiggled his fingers inside his glove. There was still a slight tingle, as if his hand had fallen asleep, but now he could at least _feel_ it. At the fresh memory of that deathly cold, the tarmac outside seemed almost pleasant.

|~|~|

[StarWire Telegram Services: Service Station RSUK-4-Z0n4-R]

|Received|203|12|11|14|45|

|| Une. || It has been my understanding that leave activities are at the discretion of each agent, so long as they are legal. || I will remind you that it was under rather insistent recommendations from my superior officer that I have even taken leave. || I should expect that, of all people, you might understand the need to take leave of the recognition garnered by our former careers and acquaintances behind, if only for a time. || If necessary, I can return to Brussels within 48 hours of notification to Ms. Catalonia. || You should expect a package no later than 22nd December. || I have also sent along something for Mari. I hope it will be of use. || It would seem you, too, are managing issues of frigidity.3 Keep warm. || Merquise. ||

|~|~|

"Good morning." Zechs set his coffee beside where he’d left his letter on the warm bricks. “Hungry?”

The sharp pop of the flames was more answer than he had expected, and not unwelcome. There certainly wasn't anyone here he could actually talk to, and the oven wasn't the worst substitute for a companion. It was warm beyond simply giving off heat: homey. The snapping of logs and play of light over the hearth leant it an air of liveliness. Zechs fed the fire; it heated his water and cooked his food. It was horribly pragmatic, not to mention being co-dependent in a manner reminiscent of a madman, but at least it wasn't hostile. For the moment, he was quite certain his interactions with the old hearth were the closest thing to a relationship he could manage.

He prodded the dwindling embers, then stood to retrieve more logs. Keeping this and the hearth upstairs lit added some comfort to the home, and gave him something to work at besides his knitting, but… perhaps his sister hadn’t been entirely wrong when she cautioned against his coming here alone.

After six weeks in exile, even the previous morning’s brief conversation had felt taxing. It wasn’t that he had any desire for _regular_ human company. It was only that the former soldier had – despite his best efforts – had very few moments of true solitude. The barracks had _never_ been quiet, and he’d rarely had separate officer’s quarters. On Mars, there had been all of the persistent, mundane sounds of living – airlocks, footsteps, and the like – to punctuate the constant drone of the atmospheric systems. Even in Sanc, there had been birds, or the occasional squirrel, scurrying about outside, or the whispers of staff and security in the halls.

But here? Now? Only shrouded silence in the frozen world beyond the windows, and the occasional snap from the logs.

There had been a few creatures, before the deeper winter settled. A few birds. Even a dog, early on. Whatever had managed to hide down here in the cellar. The thing that had gotten into the house would sometimes make itself known, scritching away behind the woodpile, though he had yet to determine what it actually was. _Probably a rat_.

Zechs pulled another piece of wood from the shelving and peered behind it. He half expected to see his uninvited guest waiting in the space behind the removed log. With his luck, when he did find it, he was certain it would be rabid and surly, all ready to snap off a finger or two. He just barely missed dropping his armload onto his own feet when something tipped out toward him from behind the last piece of wood. “Fu-!”

It certainly wasn’t the size of a rat – being nearly as long as his forearm – and a prod revealed that, whatever it was, it wasn’t alive, either. Oblong, with a thick coating of soot and dust, it looked to have been there for years, though he could have sworn her cleared those shelves. Zechs was left only to hope that it hadn’t formally been his vermin visitor. Tentatively, he pulled the thing out of the shadowed recess to take a better look.

The texture beneath his fingers felt more like an old coat than a carcass. He gave it a shake. In retrospect, he had to admit, not the finest of ideas. Still, it did the job of dislodging enough dust to see what he held: A single shoe of grey wool, with details stitched out in red and white threads.

Aside from the few persistent spots of soot, the slipper was in decent shape. The wool was heavy, and would have been warm and cosy on the brick floors of the cellar. Something had settled into a lump out in the toe. Cosy, indeed. He’d have a look once he finished the rest of his daily upkeep chores. The shoe didn’t smell like it housed some dead creature, but…

Zechs set the slipper back in its cubby. Once he’d gotten the wood in front of the old hearth, he set to rekindling the fire. “Adventure, hmm?”

The fresh wood crackled in response as it began to burn in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - When you pull out stitches while knitting, you are “ripping out” stitches. You “rip it,” which sounds a lot like “ribbet,” one of the English language words for the sounds made by frogs. As I learned to knit, I also learned that “frogging” was the term used for taking apart your work.
> 
> Ripping stitches --> Rip it --> Ribbet --> Frog --> Frogging
> 
> 2 - In the Russian Cyrillic alphabet, ТГК is read as TGK would be in the Roman alphabet. I went with Gavril (Гаврил) for Treize’s middle name because it’s a name I’ve always liked. Plus, you have to smile a little when you say it. (The ил/il rhymes with meal, not dill.)
> 
> 3 - Why, yes, that is a veiled way to call someone an ice-bitch. I’m so glad you noticed.


	6. Housekeeper - Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zechs receives unwanted guests and unbidden greetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to @bryrony (REBB) for support and encouragement.
> 
> Translations, when necessary, are in the notes.
> 
> This chapter was not beta-read, so please let me know if you spot a typo.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!

|~|~|~|

Jakstitje, Hallsbey, and Pietronne Law Associates

Atty: George Pietronne

Notary: Martia Vyakesytz

I, the undersigned, entrust this letter to Mr. George Pietronne, that it should be delivered to Mr. M. Peacecraft, whose identifying vital information is transcribed in Appended Document A.

This letter shall only be delivered following my death, actual or otherwise legally apparent, or following a period of public absence of not less than five years, and only under the condition that Mr. Peacecraft shall take ownership of or residence in the summer cottage described in the Appended Document B.

Signed: _T. G. Khushrenada_

Signed: _G. Pietronne_

Notarized by _M.Vyakesytz_ , Comm.#961352-5787, Association of Notaries Public, United Earth Sphere Alliance, District 02-4, Salamanca, ESP.

[Addendum, lettered in red pen.]

Света _:_ Спасибо, Т. 1

|~|~|

Zechs awoke to a chittery scrabbling as something dug through the fireplace ashes. His unwelcome housemate was making itself known as it rooted around past the foot of the bed, its ferreting about less the scratching of claws than the swish of a brush or broom. The little thing was clearly moving, first over the brickwork, then the inlaid wood, and back; click-shuffling between the hearth and the floor of the room.

He reasoned that it had to have come up through the radiator pipes. While they certainly weren’t carrying heat through the house – especially not to his room, which was still freezing whenever the fire got low – the pipes could could give whatever was sharing the house with him easy access to the upper floors. Why anything would want to come up here was beyond him. Aside from the bed offering a better sleeping option than a brick floor, something that shouldn’t have mattered to an animal, the guest room was hardly a place he could imagine any living creature would _want_ to be.

And yet – straining to hold his breath after being startled awake – Zechs was certain he could hear something scrabbling over the floor just past his toes.

The soldiering part of his mind ticked off steadily, working down the possibilities that might have brought whatever it was up to his sleeping space. It wasn’t the heat. The basement was always warmer than this room, even at – his watch lit at his touch – the godless hour of 03:41. Though the fire in the old oven might be low, the underground room was well sealed. It wasn’t up here for want of bedding. The library held enough old books to make nests; and there was no end to the available drapery and linens on the first floor. It certainly wasn’t up here for food. Zechs never ate in bed, and what sort of thing would root around the edge of afireplace looking for a meal? If it was that desperate, he should have woken up to it eating him, not scratching away near the hearth.

There might have enough light from the embers for him to see what it was, had he been sleeping in the other direction. With the foot of the bed closest to the hearth, though, there was little hope of getting at it without startling the thing. If he could only sit up.

The wood of the bed groaned. The scuttling stopped. Zechs waited, breath held.

One minute ticked by, first into two, then three. Though he strained, the steady hiss and pop of the fireplace was all the the blond could hear. Cursing his missed chance, Zechs pushed aside the bed curtains at his feet, searching out the source of the sound. As in the basement, there was no apparent cause. Though, to his disgust, there was quite a mess.

Ashes had been scattered almost along the entire foot of his bed, numerous trails looping between the foot board and fireplace in meandering lines, as if the pest had been pacing. There were clear little prints in the soot and – though they little resembled tracks of any rat Zechs might recognize – he could just make out a furrow between the lines left by the little feet, exactly where a tail should have been dragging.

Zechs flicked on the lamp beside him, scanning the room for any movement at the edges of the shadows, waiting. Even with the unsteady light still cast by the fire, there was nothing that seemed to have been his little creature. The highboy in the corner was still closed, its doors latched against anything crawling its way inside. The dressing table provided even poorer cover, thin tapered legs offering meagre grip at best for any clambering little beastie. Even the wing chair tucked by the window would have been a desperate refuge, at best, the ancient leather hardly an easy target for little teeth, worn so smooth that even needle claws would fight for purchase. There was, Zechs reasoned, nowhere in the room where whatever vermin this was could have gone. Nowhere that offered cover, or even the slightest possibility of safety where he could not have seen it.

Mindful not to let any of his mounded blankets slip onto the dirtied floor, Zechs swung his feet over the edge of the bed. It was only just as his socked feet touched the inlaid oak that he realized. He’d been wrong.

While the nightstand matched the dressing table in design, with only a slim letter drawer a metre of the ground, the bed was a haven of shadows and soft spaces into which to scurry or burrow. The thing could have easily have darted beneath, the wide frame giving ample shelter, its underside one of the few places in the room hidden from Zechs’ line of site.

His heart loud in his ears, the former prince unclasped his watch, flicking the luminance as high as he could. With a last glance back at the unmade bed – how lovely it would be to curl back up and forget all of this nuisance – he dropped to his knees and peered beneath it.

At first inspection, there was nothing of any interest or danger on the floor. Casting the wan light toward the foot confirmed that the sooty trail hadn’t continued under him as he slept. The creature yet evaded him.

Still, that wasn’t to say that the space beneath the bed was pristine. Already, a thin layer of dust was beginning to form, knocked loose from his sleeping. A firm tenting in the fabric above him showed that one of the metal support coils had pressed out of alignment, threatening to rip through.

Zechs spotted something, though, on his second pass, along the midline of the bed, near the headboard. It was just out of reach, a hand’s breadth past the tips of his fingers, wedged between the wooden support and the lower box spring. Zechs could feel the grimace pulling down the corner of his mouth. He would have to crawl under and fish whatever it was out.

|~|~|

5th December

Zed:

I am aware that you value your privacy, but please send a letter if you haven’t recently. Knowing you are hale and whole would be appreciated. Send something to our niece as well, please? She is getting to that moody age, you know.

Relena has been an absolute menace in coercing me to help with your welcoming home party. Perhaps I shouldn’t have written that. I would hate to ruin the surprise. (However, I would like to warn you that she may resort to dragging you through the public square if you have not returned by mid-February, around about the 16th.) I have determined to encourage her to keep things sedate and tasteful, to what little it avails.

You should have noticed your Christmas gift when you unpacked. (You’d best not have pulled a Mariemaia and already opened it!) I trust you will not do anything ridiculous with those. You should be able to restock the place with what’s here, and it ought to last through a few visits. Perhaps we can share a drink there after the thaw, or when Mari is summering with me.

On that note, I must ask that you please leave at least some of the decent wine unopened. I have included some of that awful Wild Turkey of which you seem so fond. Along with the brandy, you should be more than sated without needing to crack into my Vhino Verde. However, should you find yourself drinking the Riesling, I must ask that you promptly return to humanity and place yourself under immediate psychological observation. (Or I will tattle to your sister!)

With utmost sincerity,  
      and wishing you a very Happy Christmas,

            Dottie

|~|~|

It was only when the tips of his fingers hit the scalding water that Zechs realized he should be attending to dunking his biscuit instead of staring at the dirty pair of shoes on the kitchen counter. He’d only just unpacked the yarn and baked goods, along with a few suspiciously heavy, clinking boxes, from the second care package Dot had insisted he take with him. Certainly, it wasn’t Christmas, yet, but she couldn’t have expected him to wait that entire time. Most especially not when she had packed a box full of cookies, finespun merino, and – given her usual patterns of gifting – copious amounts of alcohol. In his current mood, the last of these was something at which he felt an almost childish giddiness.

The week had started off poorly – he still felt ill at the thought of venturing off the grounds, again – and had shown little improvement as it went on. Certainly, his visit with civilization hadn’t gone… well, but neither had it transpired too poorly. Thinking on it, Zechs found it difficult to pin his creeping ire on any one thing, really. It was hard to say what he’d found most unnerving in the past week that had set him back to thoughts of drinking.

The cause might have been the limited sleep of the last two nights; the first when he was awoken well ahead of usual, followed by the second when he’d foregone rest to lie in wait for his rouser. It could have been the second woolen shoe that he’d discovered had been stuck up under the bed, covered in soot and in a placement that could only have been deliberate. It might have been the contents of the first shoe, a carved bird, painted in similar colours of black, grey, and red, with eyes that seemed almost to track him when he turned it in his hands.

Or, perhaps, he ought to just give in to the truth of the matter. The real problem sat just upstairs, perched on the corner of his mantle, waxen sealed and lovely, and feeling heavier each time he hefted it in his hands.

Choking down the last bites of mushy biscuit, chased by his crumb-filled tea, Zechs picked up the second shoe off of the counter beside him. Unlike its mate hidden behind the woodpile, the slipper under the bed had held no tiny surprise, only a few motes of lint deep down in the toe. It held no holes, either, so it might be worth cleaning off. He dropped it onto the floor alongside his foot. It might be a little roomy, but it would certainly be as comfortable as padding around in his socks.

Decided, he set the pair of slippers to the side. He could soak them with the unmentionables of his laundry after a bath. For now, he had the rest of Dorothy’s package to unpack, if not to indulge in.

|~|~|

[ _Reverse of a postcard showing a small snowman dressed in a Hawaiian print shirt and placed on the deck of a mobile suit carrier at sea._ ]

THAT WAS A DAMNED STUPID PLACE TO SPEND YOUR WINTER.

YOU’VE ALWAYS GOT SOMEWHERE QUIET IF YOU NEED IT, KID.

DON’T BE A JACKASS AND FREEZE TO DEATH OUT THERE.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

HOWARD

|~|~|

The wooden rooster stared back at him from where he’d set it on the mantelpiece, carved tail feathers curling up over its head, painted eyes looking too human for its tiny, feathered face. Its beak was open in a perpetually silent crow. Zechs could almost pretend it was cute. For now, the odd chicken guarded the heavy cream envelope well enough.

He ought to have burnt it after he’d broken the seal on the outer mailer. As he’d pulled the few pieces of mail from the large white postal envelope – a letter from Dorothy, another reply from his sister, and something from, of all people, Mike Howard2 \- he could have still brushed it off as a prank. Anything _might_ have been inside the certified letter. An eviction notice from Dorothy. A letter of termination from Preventers. A thin bit of plastique, triggered by a friction ignition cable that might put him out of his misery.

Indeed, anything else would have been more pleasant than the vine embossed stationery and legal notice that he’d shaken loose from the larger envelope. He picked the former up, again, turning it in his hands. Zechs’ thumb traced the wax seal. Red – of course it would be – edged in thorny branches. The scrolling _K_ centered large, with a tiny rose vine twining up the diagonals, leaving a half open blossom between them. He turned it over in his hands, gaze settling on the crisp block lettering.

 _ϺиЛи_ _3_

“God damn you.”

He wondered, quietly in the back of his mind, if he was cursing himself or the dead general. Regardless, since he had already been consigned to a hell of his own making in this life, Zechs Merquise would gladly accept permanent damnation in the next if that tawny-headed bastard was burning there beside him. Treize had _planned_ this, and the former prince hated him for it. Zechs hated Treize for knowing that he would come to this place. He hated Treize for working to leave something behind after he died. He hated Treize for putting more effort into contacting him after death than staying _alive_.

And, of course, Zechs hated himself for the nervous, expectant flip he’d felt upon reading his own name in that familiar hand. The way his mouth had drawn inadvertently into an enamored smile. The resurgent pull of longing, even only one more time, to hear his lover’s tread behind him, to feel the soft chuckle of breath against the back of his neck.

“Should have killed you myself.”

The envelope creased in his grip, paper crinkling audibly as a bit of the waxen seal flaked off. If would burn so well. He just had to toss it in; no matter how much he fed them, the flames were always hungry. He ought to do it. He would do it, once the watery haze before him cleared, and the edges of his vision were no longer blurred. For the moment, Zechs put the letter back atop the mantle. There was smoke in his eyes, and he needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 – Sveta: Thank you, T.
> 
> 2 – Personal headcanon that Howard is one of the few people who Zechs respects and who actually cares about him. Despite how world weary he seemed, I always though Howard felt some guilt about all the people/literal children getting hurt/killed because of machines and organizations he helped build. I sort of see Howard extending that not just to the Gundam pilots, but to Zechs, Dorothy, and maybe Noin as well.
> 
> 3 – Phonetic spelling of MiLi, with M(Ϻ) and L(Л) capitalized.


End file.
